Only in Dreams
by remus lupin kisses x.x
Summary: Harry has been having a recurrent dream: what does it mean?


Harry wakes in the pre-dawn light of an English summer's day: it must be very early, about 3am, because the curtains on his bedroom window are just starting to admit a greyish, weak glow. He is aware of the same problem that has woken him several times since the beginning of the holidays: his bed is a sticky mess: his pyjamas are soiled and stuck to his body by the ejaculation at the end of a familiar dream; the climax of which has woken him.

The dream itself is never clearly remembered, the images are more like a shadow-play than a movie: a warm dark presence engulfs him, his body is straining and pleading to be touched. Please, please, touch me! The dark figure looms above him and he feels the heat of its body which while it seems dark is somehow not threatening. How can that be? Darkness means evil in Harry's experience, and he's had far too many dark experiences for comfort over the last four years. Harry has experienced dark dreams sent by Voldemort: these are always disturbing with overtones of violence and cruelty; and while this dream disturbs him, it is in a different way.

In the dream Harry's body is crying out for release. There is a strange, spicy, almost medicinal scent surrounding him.  
"Please..."

His body jerks, then throbs, and he explodes with a groan and a spasmodic pulsing which wakes him to the reality of his sticky pyjamas and soiled sheets, and the grey light of Privet Drive at dawn.

Harry sits up reluctantly. No use trying to avoid it: he's going to have to get up and do something about the problem. The fear of Aunt Petunia discovering the stained bedding, of knowing and shaming him, He scrabbled out of bed and strips the sheet and pyjamas, wiping himself on them as he does so. He puts his dressing gown on and takes the laundry bundle down to the utility room, loading it into the washer/drier. If Aunt Petunia has noticed that she's getting through more laundry tablets lately, she hasn't mentioned it in Harry's hearing.

Harry rubs his eyes and moves to the kitchen, deciding a cup of tea will help at this stage. No point trying to get back to sleep immediately, he's awake now. He takes his tea and sits at the kitchen table, considering yet again why this turn of events has come about. He's aware that boys of his age sometimes have dreams, and also masturbate (he hates the word "wank", so gross!). His dormitory mates can sometimes be heard in these activities, especially if they think their neighbours are asleep. Until this holiday though, Harry just hasn't had a problem with it. His mind has been preoccupied with work, Defence, the TriWizard Tournament, Voldemort, Quidditch, more work, being the Boy Who Lived, any number of problems that others didn't seem to have to deal with. These have occupied his brain fully, and even his body has seemed almost dormant. Perhaps the move back to the Dursleys, away from the reminders of the split in the Wizarding world, has released enough energy within his being, to cause this change to come about. He could believe that over the summer he's caught up with his mates in a rush though, the frantic level of the experiences are so intense that he's spent several nights in the utility room.

Harry finishes his tea and decides that this is yet another example of his personal oddity: everything to do with Potter has to be different and more awkward than the experiences of his friends. He would be willing to bet a hefty purse of Galleons that Ron isn't spending any mornings of his holiday in front of a washer. At least when he returns to Hogwarts the cleaning process will be easier: a simple Scourgify spell and both his sheets, pyjamas and his wayward cock will be cleaned in an instant. Muggle technology leaves a lot to be desired.

Now he thinks about Scourgify, he remembers that he's heard it whispered fairly often last year, but hadn't registered what that implied at the time. Harry doesn't want to think he is backward, small and slow in his development (which boy would?). It is true that he is never going to be tall, his build is ideal for a Seeker: small and slender but athletically built. He is also one of the youngest in his year, born at the end of July. He's grown a bit over the previous year it's true, but he's unlikely to catch the growth spurts of Ron and Neville in particular.

He sits and idly flicks through yesterday's Muggle newspaper while he waits for the washer to complete its programs. If he leaves the sheets in the machine after the wash ends, Aunt Petunia will find them, or they'll become so creased and obvious to anyone who cares to look into his room. Not that they usually bother, but he prefers to avoid the possibility of being questioned by Uncle Vernon along the lines of, "What the blazes are you doing to your bedding, boy?" He looks up as the machine stops turning, then rises and gathers his newly-clean linen and carries it, yawning, back to his room.

This behaviour is getting tedious. It's always the same dream: nebulous, tantalising, teasing. It has to mean something to him, its recurrence is proof of that, and the presence is someone he knows, he's sure of that, too. It's never clear enough to make out any details though.

This year, as in each previous year, Harry can't wait for the start of the new term, he wants to get back to Hogwarts and normality, Potter-style, and hopefully the end of these dreams.

Harry spends a day in Diagon Alley, picking up supplies for his 5th year. He knows things are getting serious, with OWLs in the offing and much work to look forward to, if that's the correct phrase. This summer there had been no Weasley visit to break up the tedium, and the endless days at Privet Drive had seemed longer than ever and even worse than usual. But time does pass, and September 1st was here at last. Harry catches the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross as usual, remembering with a fond smile his First Year difficulties of even finding how to get onto the platform. He feels much older now, especially when he sees the small figures of this year's First Years. Had he EVER been _that_ small?

Sitting with his Gryffindor friends in the carriage racing north, Harry feels a little cheered. He belongs with these people; and while he knows he's different even from them (the Boy Who Lived indeed), he's_almost _the same, isn't he? He's as near to being at home here as he could be anywhere. He hopes he'll soon settle into his dormitory with no more embarrassment than the average 15 year-old.

Harry started to relax, Ron and Hermione had been discussing the importance of this 5th Year of studies (this was, of course, Hermione's subject of conversation, which Ron had not managed to deflect her from).

"Bloody Hell, Hermione," Ron finally groaned, "give it a rest. We haven't even got to Hogwarts yet, and you're ready to make up a study timetable!"

"I think you should be a bit more concerned about your work this year, Ron," she countered, "the grades and subjects we pass will have a direct effect on our future careers. I wouldn't want to see you wasted in some dead-end job. You can do well if you apply yourself, and I'm willing to help you both (she smiled at Harry) organise your time to get the best results."

"I agree with Hermione, well at least to some extent," Harry said, and Ron's eyebrows rose into his hairline, "I want to get decent grades and be able to choose a cool job after Hogwarts. I wouldn't like a job like Stan Shunpike's, or Tom's at the Leaky Cauldron but I don't know what I want to do yet."

Hermione beamed, "There you are Ron, if even Harry can see how important this year is, I think you should give up arguing," Harry decided to ignore the "even".

"If you're not sure what you want to do yet, Harry, you'd better try and get decent grades in all your subjects, so you have a wide choice later."

The carriage door slid open and the three looked up to see Draco Malfoy leaning against the door, with the ever-present looming forms of Crabbe and Goyle behind him, waiting to watch their master's performance.

"Well, well, well, look who's here, boys," Malfoy drawled, "It's the Holy Trinity: Saint Potter, the Blessed Mudblood and the other one... The Weasel Spirit."

Crabbe and Goyle dutifully guffawed.

"Take a hike, Malfoy," Harry snarled.

"Only called by to see how you were doing... ready for another year of paling into insignificance next to me?" said Malfoy, smirking at the three of them.

"Paling's the right word," Hermione snapped, and Draco glared at her with real malevolence now.

"At least my hair doesn't look like a gorse bush that a runaway horse has just pushed through," he sneered.

Hermione's hair was one of her sensitive points, and she was rendered temporarily speechless. Harry stood up.

"I told you to get out, Malfoy," he said, his voice louder than normal, and he took a couple of steps forward. Ron rose as well.

"Well, it's good to see you haven't changed much," Malfoy continued, "You should be just as easy to beat in class, Potter, and getting you a detention or two shouldn't prove difficult either. I'm sure my_godfather _will oblige." and with an almost pleasant smile, he turned and walked away, his two large followers obscuring him from view in a moment.

"Godfather," Ron asked, "Who's that then?"

"Well I don't think there can be too many candidates for that dubious honour at Hogwarts, do you?" Hermione said, "Can you think of anyone who favours Malfoy?"

Harry winced. Yes, he could.

"Well, there's always Snape," he said. And indeed there was.

On their first night back, after the usual late night catching up with each other's news in the Gryffindor Common Room, Harry fell into bed and was asleep before his head touched the pillow. His dream when it came was familiar, but thankfully less intense than at the Dursleys. He sensed rather than saw the dark presence of his regular vision, but awoke before it came close enough to see, and also before Harry could come all over his bedding. He rolled over onto his side, trying to ignore his arousal, and couldn't help a groan escaping his lips. He could smell a lingering scent: something spicy, fruity and musky hung in the air. Surely he was just remembering it from his dream? In the dream, scent had been more important than vision this time.

The persistence of his erection and the need to do something about it made him decide that a visit to bathroom was called for. He groaned (quietly, no point disturbing the others) and trekked through the dormitory toward the boys bathroom. His erection was still hard, jabbing at his belly, and that made him approach the washbasins as quickly as he could. It didn't take him long to rub and squeeze himself to orgasm; he'd already been most of the way there in the dream. To Harry, the dark figure is synonymous with sex, and the subtle scent had definitely lingered longer than his sleep, something he'd not noticed previously. He could smell it now, rising up from his cock, the scent hastening his release with a reminder of the dark figure, and it became an undertone to the sharp scent of his semen, which spurted upwards over his belly and the washbasin as his movements finished the work begun in dreams. He closed his eyes and drew some steadying breaths, before quickly cleaning up using water, so handy nearby, rather than returning for his wand which was still on his bedside table, in order to cast_Scourgify. _

The images in the dream had been hazier than when he was at Privet Drive, but the lingering scent was clearer. If he was going to work out what and who was involved he'd need to give it some thought. It wasn't the sort of problem he could very well ask Hermione to help with (the thought of asking her to help decipher the meaning of a recurrent wet dream caused him to blush intensely). He was fairly sure he could smell a medicinal element, perhaps a medical potion, but it was not as simple as that. There was a strong element of fruit (a link to the kitchens, or cleaning, which conjured up images of House Elves and that couldn't be right), and another layer too: a musky, deep element which tantalised the edge of his senses and which he couldn't quite identify. The complete perfume was unlike the smell of the Hospital Wing (and that was a relief, for Harry did not associate that sterile atmosphere with anything other than pain and Madam Pomfrey, and he wanted neither to be part of his sexual fantasies). It wasn't quite like the smell of the Potions classroom either (thank goodness for that, for the juxtaposition of sex and Professor Snape was even worse, capable of changing a fantasy into a nightmare!).

On still shaky legs, Harry wobbled back to bed, relieved he'd managed to deal with his "problem" without waking any of the others. It was hardly getting light yet, and he soon drifted back to a dreamless sleep, able to relax as his tension was resolved for now.

And the first day of classes and of course the first lesson (a double at that!) just _had_ to be Potions, with their least favourite instructor, Professor Snape. The greasy git was bound to be in a foul mood, with a whole year of his favourite job (teaching!) stretching ahead of him. Why on earth was he a teacher, when he showed every sign of hating his job?

Everyone's expectations were pretty low, and they weren't to be disappointed. Snape started by sweeping down the aisle with his best impression of a vampire bat. Really, if he hadn't been a member of this class, but an observer, Harry would have found it comical.

Snape did not disappoint them.

"This is the start of your 5th year, at the end of which you will be required to sit an OWL examination. I expect you all to achieve enough understanding of my classes that you will be able to pass this examination, and any failures will be viewed with _extreme _displeasure," and Snape frowned around at them all, to emphasise the point.

"The Fifth Year syllabus includes more complex potions than those you have studied so far. In addition, they are more dangerous and require more skill during their creation and extra caution during handling. Anyone foolish enough to not pay attention during my lessons," and his eyes swivelled towards Harry, "will likely find themselves with worse consequences than a mere detention. There will also be more homework this year than I have previously given," and here Harry groaned inwardly at the prospect of more hours in the library with Potions books, "but for those who take the time and effort to study adequately, the reward of an Outstanding mark will ensure their acceptance into my NEWT potions class. I expect those who will need NEWT-level Potions for their future careers to work hard this year, and prove that they are worthy of a place in that select study group. Anyone who does not show the correct dedication to study, or exercise due care regarding safety; will not be able to continue under my tutelage next year. I am certain that the majority of you will fall lamentably short of the required standard, as you have done throughout our acquaintance."

Snape resumed his glaring from face to face, as if anxious that everyone was fully aware of the importance of his start of term speech.

None of the pupils could bear to hold that gaze; nearly everyone fidgeted under his regard or looked down at their books, feeling guilty even before they'd done anything wrong.

The glare froze when it reached Harry, as he'd known it would. The phrase "if looks could kill" was never more appropriate. Harry wanted to look down, to be anywhere else, but damn it, why should he? His work was as good as the rest, not brilliant, but certainly adequate, despite Snape's constant criticisms. He behaved as well as they did and paid attention in class (just as he was doing now), but somehow it was never enough, his mere presence seemed an insult to the Professor. Four previous years of being glared at, resented, goaded, and singled out and Harry was sick of it. There was no reason that he could see for this hatred, he'd never done anything personally to Snape. Ok, so he looked like his Dad, he couldn't help that and that shouldn't influence the way a Hogwarts professor treated him. Yet the look in Snape's eyes was pure hatred, Harry thought. You could have bottled it and sold it in Borgin & Burke's, Dark Wizard's Supply shop in Diagon Alley.

The stubborn part of Harry felt challenged by Snape: he was NOT going to drop his eyes; he'd no reason to do so. He was watching the Professor attentively, listening to his opening speech of term, why should he feel cowed? The longer Harry held his eyes steady, the more agitated Snape became. His glare had cranked up another notch, which Harry found amazing in itself, and he positively radiated resentment.

"Open your books at page 23, the Paralysis Potion. Take particular note of the ingredients and their relative quantities, it is easy to mix measures in this recipe and cause complete disaster with the wrong combination. In previous years I have been obliged to dowse the dungeon in icy water, to levitate everyone from the floor, or to take several spectacularly-altered pupils to Madam Pomfrey, some for removal of extra limbs, hair, horns or scales. I can hardly wait to see what variation on normal this current apology for a class can come up with"

Throughout all this he continued to stare directly at Harry as if transfixed. It was really strange, as if their gazes were locked and neither could break the contact, almost like the casting of a spell.  
"My notes for your homework reading are on the blackboard," he continued, "and it may be helpful to consult this additional work which is freely available in the library." He turned to write a reference on the board with a wave of his wand.

The eye contact was broken, and Harry sagged, as if a stiff ruler had been removed from his spine. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it. What had that been about? It looked as though Potions class was going to be worse than ever, and Harry couldn't have believed that was possible, after suffering four years of Potions lessons in this very room, all of which had been extremely trying. He had to admit he now appreciated the "subtle science" much more than when he started, and he felt he'd learned a lot as well, but the experience could never have been described as a positive one. Perhaps Snape's animosity towards him was caused by Harry's rivalry with his godson: Draco Malfoy.

Harry and Ron, who were sitting together as usual in Potions, bustled around taking notes about which ingredients and equipment to gather, generally preparing for the practical part of the lesson. Hermione had her hands full helping Neville, who not only struggled with his notoriously poor memory, but had extreme lack of confidence in Snape's classes (well, who didn't, but it was definitely worse for Neville as Snape sensed his weakness and seemed to delight in hounding him).

"Well", Snape snapped after ten minutes, "you have had ample time to prepare yourselves, and will need the remaining part of the lesson to fully concentrate on preparing the Potion, if you are to have any hope of making something even vaguely resembling Paralysis Potion. Any medical disasters will be accompanied, at the end of the session, to the Hospital Wing. If you could try to keep them in single figures, I would be obliged."

Harry ground his teeth - why did he always have to be so bloody snide?

The potion was indeed significantly more complicated than the ones they'd tried in previous years. Really it needed either a very adept wizard, or a team of two wizards, to prepare it. Ron had to count stirs carefully, to end up with the proper ratio of clockwise to anticlockwise turns. Altering this proportion altered the strength and effects of the Paralysis Potion. Harry concentrated on adding the ingredients, slowly and carefully and in the order given. This sounded easier than it was: several items resembled each other closely, such as shrivelfigs and dried toads' bladders, but added in the wrong order would no doubt cause some of the dramatic accidents Snape had mentioned. A further unpleasant complication was that some of the ingredients were still alive: flobberworm larvae were if anything even worse than the adult form - they writhed, exuded thick slime, and stank of something resembling old Quidditch socks. Taking as much care as he could, Harry nevertheless handled the disgusting things as quickly and as little as possible, adding two at the appropriate moment between the 19th and 20th clockwise stirs that Ron counted out. Snape's eyes were boring into Harry's back all the time, he could _feel_ them. He wants me to fumble, wants me to mess up and drop the things at the wrong time, or on the floor or something. Well I _won't_... And by sheer will-power he added them correctly. Ron was counting to save his life and stirring as smoothly as he could. Not good enough, though.

"Weasley, there's no need to create a tidal wave in that cauldron, try to stir the liquid with a little restraint".

On cue, Harry heard the Slytherins snicker...

A noise from the next table showed that Neville was obviously getting jittery due to Snape's proximity.

"Ron, keep stirring!" Harry said, "Snape's right, it says in the book that it's important to keep it smooth at this stage or it won't thicken properly."  
Harry heard Neville whimpering with fear as Snape's eyes turned towards his table. Ron seemed unable to stir smoothly, so Harry turned to try and help him.  
"Let me have a go with the spoon Ron, perhaps your arms are getting stiff?"

"Okay Harry, thanks." Ron croaked thankfully, glad to be free of the task and any further comments from Snape, and passed the spoon hurriedly to Harry, only too glad to be rid of it. He managed to get the spoon's long wooden handle caught in the handle of the cauldron, flipping it out sideways and connecting with the prepared vial for the finished potion which was standing waiting on their workbench, with a dramatic "_ching_". Inevitably, Snape's eyes swivelled back towards Harry and Ron's table, just in time to see the vial describe an elegant arc and slide through the air, over the edge of the table and disappear to shatter on the hard stone dungeon floor.

He smiled beatifically, and approached Harry, leaning over almost lovingly. Harry hitched a breath, and as he did so he noticed... a scent. Since the recurrence of his dream, Harry had become preternaturally aware of the power of scent and its usefulness in defining people and places. The scent of Snape was as distinctive as the man himself: pungent and spicy, with overtones of some sharp potion Harry couldn't identify and didn't care to try. Well, what was odd about that? More or less what you'd expect from a Potions Master. Harry firmly and deliberately squashed the thought that it was a similar scent to the scent in his dream: there was_no_ comparison, no fruity part, and no musky element either... Snape just smelt like an obsessed dungeon-dweller who never left his workshop, which of course was precisely what he was. Harry decided to bluff this out, maintaining a veneer of not having noticed Snape's approach, while stirring the thickening liquid with a dedication he showed in few other classes.

"Mr Potter," and Snape's voice was so soft, so seductive, and very satisfied, as if this was exactly what he had desired all lesson, and Harry had gifted it to him,  
"yet again your clumsiness disrupts my classroom. I think we'll take 10 points from Gryffindor and a detention here tonight just to get the point across clearly."

Ron groaned... "Please Professor Snape, it wasn't Harry, it was me," he tried.

Pointless, as he'd feared it would be.

"If I wanted your opinion, Weasley, I would have asked for it," Snape snarled, "5 more points from Gryffindor for interrupting your teacher".

Ron groaned again and gave it up, Snape loved the opportunity to persecute Harry, and there was nothing Ron could do to change that.

Harry continued stirring the Potion as if his life depended on it, and while it was not perfect he had managed to make it as near as possible to the instructions as the circumstances would allow, and he was fairly confident it would pass the inspection. It looked the right colour and consistency and didn't smell too bad (for a potion).

"Ron, go and get another vial so we can submit this," he instructed.  
"Why don't we just cast _Reparo _on the broken one?" Ron asked.  
"You know Snape doesn't allow magical repairs or mess-cleaning in his classes. If you're clumsy enough to break or spill something, you have to be exposed and punished. Now go and get a new vial, please."

Ron started towards the equipment shelves.

"Where do you think you're going, Weasley?" Snape asked, almost pleasantly.

"To get a vial for our potion," Ron quavered.

"I think not," Snape said amiably, smiling. Oh, he was clearly enjoying himself, but did he have to make it so obvious? "You've broken your vial; you only get one chance per table, for the sake of fairness to all Houses. Where would we be if everyone had two goes at each potion?"

More Slytherin snickers, they really loved Snape's wit. 'Fairness to all Houses?' that was a good one coming from Snape, whose biased favour of the Slytherins was notorious.

"Oh great," Harry whispered across to Hermione, "no marks again..."

The year was starting out as he'd expected, well that's what he'd known would happen, wasn't it, and he was almost too resigned to get upset about it, and utterly unsurprised.

As the rest of the class finished up, Harry packed away. Ron was very downhearted and just sat apathetically as Harry cleared the table. They'd already copied their references for homework, and so as the bell rang, they were one of the first to leave. They didn't have to queue to hand in a potion sample, after all.

The rest of the day passed more pleasantly, with Care of Magical Creatures and Divination; neither lesson particularly taxing, and a positive breeze compared with the torture that was Potions class. Harry left Divination with a project on the origins of the Tarot to research, and hurried to the Great Hall looking forward to his dinner. He wanted to get there well in time, so he'd have plenty of opportunity to prepare for detention with Snape and ensure he wasn't late, antagonising the man further could only result in extra unpleasant cleaning tasks.

And so, at 7pm that evening, after eating the usual marvelous Hogwarts dinner for which he had nevertheless managed to drum up little enthusiasm, slightly downhearted but not overly surprised, Harry found himself approaching the dungeons, for the detention incurred during his first Potions lesson.

The door was closed, so Harry knocked, and heard the familiar tones of Snape call "Come in, Potter!" from the other side of the door.  
He opened the door, but Snape was nowhere to be seen. Blinking foolishly he regarded the classroom, which was in apparent order with everything neatly tidied away after the day's lessons. No Hogwarts student would have left their worktable untidy, as Snape was very particular about the state of the classroom, but Harry had expected to find the usual pile of hopelessly messed-up cauldrons on the back bench, patiently awaiting the care of the next candidate for detention.

"I said come in!" - a more irritable order and it came from the side-room which Harry knew to be a workshop. Snape was often preparing things in there at the start of lessons, entering the classroom sneakily (to Harry's mind), rather than through the main door, no doubt hoping to catch students talking about him, or looking for the opportunity to confiscate items. Dean Thomas was still bemoaning the loss of his prized copy of "The Quidditch Year Book", which he'd only been flicking through while waiting for Snape to arrive. Apparently, the appearance of a book on Quidditch in Snape's dungeon was a sufficient insult to result in the book's confiscation. Dean had still not recovered it: he'd been told it would be given back to him at the end of the year and to consider himself lucky he'd be getting it then.

Harry had to admit that he was interested to see inside this room, which had attained the status of a sanctum for the Professor, with many sniggered comments from his pupils as to what he kept in there. He walked towards the door, which was ajar.

The room was surprisingly light and airy despite the fact there were no windows in the dungeon. The surfaces were pristine and the equipment, much of which was of a complexity Harry had never seen before, was sparklingly clean. Snape stood behind a bench, apparently counting out seeds from a jar. Having satisfied himself he had enough for his recipe, he glanced up at Harry.

"So here we are again, Potter," he remarked, almost casually, "Is this the start of another year of totally unproductive lessons for our resident celebrity, who is of course too occupied with saving the Wizarding World to pay attention in class. I usually get my pitiful detention subjects to scrub cauldrons, but as it is the start of the school year, and my pupils were careful to clean their equipment to my satisfaction, sadly I have none to offer you. Therefore, your punishment tonight will be a bit different. Indeed, it is scarcely a punishment, rather a privilege that I am offering you. I need to replenish Madam Pomfrey's store-cupboard of medicines, and so tonight we will prepare a batch of Sedative Potion: a rather specialised medicinal potion that does not put the patient into normal sleep, rather it causes the brain to relax as it does in dream-sleep, renewing energy and making sense of experiences. It is particularly useful for people who have been in spell-casting challenges, such as battles or duelling as it helps their brain to process the experience and learn from it, as well as students suffering examination fatigue, of course. An extended period of dreaming sleep is very therapeutic, and the potion is in heavy demand in the Hospital Wing. In conjunction with a Concentration Draught, it would even result in improved performance from such a hopeless case as Longbottom, such is its power. You will help me prepare this year's supply."

Despite the almost obligatory snide remark about Harry's friend, he was slightly surprised at the direction the evening was taking. Snape had been speaking to him almost as if he were an equal, giving him information even more readily than he did in class it seemed, and was allowing Harry the chance to help make medical supplies for the Hospital Wing. Perhaps Snape was better teaching in a one-to-one situation, rather than in front of large classes. This was not what he had imagined for this evening, but it was a pleasant surprise. He was actually interested to see what would happen next.

"The recipe is on the board, and the ingredients are ready, counted and weighed. Shall we begin?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, and thought he noticed a small flicker of surprise on Snape's face at the respectful tone he'd used.

The next hour passed quickly as they were both fully absorbed with the brewing process. Snape continued to speak to Harry as if he was a genuine assistant, with comments like, "Pass the asphodel, please, Potter," (_please!_) and, "this knife is especially sharp and it needs to be for the tiger lily bulbs, take care while you're slicing them." (_take care!_ Harry would have expected Snape to relish the thought of him losing a few fingertips, as long as his blood did not sully the precious roots, or else take the opportunity to make a sarcastic comment about his slicing skills).

Finally the majority of the ingredients were in the cauldron, the liquid topped up, and the potion now needed to be left to simmer for an hour. Harry wondered if Snape would dismiss him now, but hopes of an early end to the work and a chance to get started on the rest of his homework were soon dashed.

"I think we've earned a cup of tea," Snape announced, and Harry nearly fainted with shock. This was the last thing he expected from Snape. The man never ceased to amaze him, this time by seeming almost _nice. _"And perhaps a little cake? This has been decent work this evening. I wonder why you cannot behave like this in class, Potter."

Harry wanted to ask how this was different from his classwork, but knew that would antagonise Snape, and the man's pleasant mood was so rare (indeed Harry had never seen a "pleasant" Snape before) that he didn't want to disturb it. Perhaps it was just that he was satisfied that the work had been productive, efficient and undertaken with mutual respect rather than resentment as it did during class. It was true that the Gryffindors were always on the lookout for ways to undermine Snape's authority, but wasn't that Snape's own fault as he'd always been particularly nasty to them (and Harry in particular) since First Year, and blatantly favoured the efforts of the members of his own House.

"Thank you, Sir, that would be nice," Harry replied, somewhat to his own surprise. His voice was too quiet, he sounded almost shy, and he didn't want to appear that way with Snape, didn't want to lose the barrier that usually existed between them, the correct defence to Snape's challenging glaring and goading during class had always been defiance, and he held on to that truth with grim determination. It would be interesting to see if there really was another side to Snape, though. Harry supposed that nobody (except perhaps Voldemort) could be out of temperall the time.

Snape turned towards the shelves of ingredients behind him, row upon row of strange-looking items, some obviously in frequent use, some dusty as if they'd not been touched in years. He touched the right-hand pan on a set of brass balances, and the shelf dissolved before Harry's gaze, to reveal a door, which Snape opened and led Harry through. Harry almost fainted with shock! The room behind was warm, cosy and didn't look anything like a dungeon. There was no window of course, but the light, while adequate, had a softer feel than in the work areas, and the room was lined with bookshelves containing not only books, but a variety of fascinating objects no doubt used in the creation of complex potions. It was strangely reminiscent of Dumbledore's office, and for some reason this surprised and almost disturbed Harry. A log fire burned in the fireplace; two old and comfortable-looking armchairs faced it. Here was a surprise, Snape had a chair for a guest, although until that evening Harry would have found it impossible to imagine anyone wanting to sit and talk with the unpleasant creature, unless it was someone equally poisonous, like Filch perhaps.

Snape waved towards the chairs "Sit" he commanded, then turned and disappeared through a door into yet another area, presumably a kitchen. Harry sat, sinking into the comfortable armchair.

He stared at the flickering flames, enjoying a sense of peace and warmth he certainly hadn't expected to find in Snape's personal quarters. _Snape's personal quarters. _He had to be the only student in the history of Hogwarts to even know this place existed didn't he? Unless the Slytherins were allowed to visit their Head of House in his sitting room, a thought which gave him a strange pang of regret, and which he refused to examine. He was certainly the only Gryffindor to be admitted here, as far as he was aware, and if anyone else had been the news would surely have gone round Gryffindor Tower like lightning.

A couple of minutes later Snape came back carrying a tray, with a teapot and two cups. There were also two side plates with pieces of dark fruit cake. Snape set the tray on the small table next to his chair, sat down and proceeded to pour out the tea, which was scented like cinnamon and smelt quite delightful. He passed a cup to Harry.

"This blend is particularly satisfying after a day's work, soothing to the mind and easing the aches of the body," he said. His voice had remained in the quiet, almost dreamy tone he'd adopted when offering the tea, and yet again Harry felt awkward and unsure how to respond. It deflected his usual 'glare back and don't look down' strategy completely.

"Thank you, Sir," he said for the second time in a short while, and was alarmed to realise that his voice sounded no less shy and awkward than it had the first time.

Flustered, he took a sip of the tea, and found that was a mistake. He should have realised it would be too hot: just-poured with no milk of course (it wasn't that sort of tea) and it made him flinch. He put the cup on the tiny table next to his own chair.

Snape passed him a plate with the cake on, and Harry said "Thank you," yet again, this time in a little stronger voice. To cover his discomfiture about the tea, he picked the cake up and bit off a little piece. Oh, he'd died and gone to Heaven! The cake was moist, rich and dark. It was packed with fruit, cherries and nuts, and melted on his tongue in an almost sensual way. He rolled it around his tongue, salivating. He heard a wanton groan, and was horrified to realise that the noise had come from his throat. Blushing, he looked up at Snape and was sure he saw his lips twitch; he now felt completely discomforted as he didn't want to be a cause of amusement for Snape.

"It's particularly good, isn't it?" Snape asked, "An ancient recipe. One of the advantages of being a scion of an ancient wizarding family," and Harry could swear he'd heard something like Snape's old sarcasm in that comment, but amazingly, in this case it was directed towards himself.

"It's marvellous," Harry agreed, unable to deny Snape the satisfaction. He continued eating, slowly, sensually, until every tiny crumb was cleared from the plate. He didn't even mind that Snape was watching him intently as he did so, as if assessing his enjoyment of the delicacy. Were it not for the fact that Snape was eating the cake too, Harry might have been suspicious that it was poisoned or tampered with in some way, but the sheer goodness of the feeling he got as he bit into the cake and rolled it around his tongue, made him feel pretty sure it was safe. And of course he had to bear in mind that Dumbledore trusted Snape, he had shown this to Harry repeatedly, and seemed genuinely disappointed that Harry disliked the man.

The cake had been small, but incredibly intense, and his plate was empty all too quickly. Snape had finished his own portion and returned the plate to the tray, so Harry did the same. He just sat for a while, savouring the taste in his mouth, and feeling incredibly relaxed. The amazement this situation should create in him was tempered by the calmness of his mood, and he sat almost mesmerised, not wishing to disturb it. He couldn't remember when he'd last felt so complete, somehow; or if he had ever felt this way.

Snape had been sitting equally quietly, looking into the fire. Then he moved, but only to pick up his tea and begin to drink. Harry thought it was probably cool enough now, so he picked up his own cup.

The scent of the hot liquid was another very pleasant surprise. The heated cinnamon-based drink gave off a delicious aroma that seemed to mix with the essence of the recently-consumed cake, and Harry almost felt dizzy with pleasure. He sipped and held a mouthful of tea on his tongue, his eyes closed. Another small groan, which this time did not embarrass him so much, and which Snape let pass without reaction. Oh, this was a situation of such strangeness. His hated Potions professor, one of the thorns in his flesh since he came to Hogwarts, was making him feel relaxed, happy and amazingly peaceful, by the simple expedient of offering him tea and cake and foregoing shouting at him for once. He continued drinking his tea and was quite disappointed when his cup was dry. He replaced it gently on the tray.

"Would you like more?" Snape asked, his voice soft.

Harry looked up and found the Professor's eyes looking directly into his. How different they were from the classroom persona! Normally his eyes glittered, their blackness sharp, like obsidian, knife-sharp glances deliberately trying to wound Harry or his friends. Now they reminded him of the dark velvet of the night sky between the stars...

"Y.. Yes please," Harry managed. Snape broke the eye contact (why did Snape's eye contact remind Harry of spell-casting, of Magic?) and turned to pour Harry another cup.

The strange companionship continued until the tea was gone, and even then they sat a little longer, not talking, just looking into the fire and being ... companionable, Harry supposed. He felt completely comfortable in this room, with this man who normally incited his rage. Harry was aware of the contrast this presented with everything he had expected this evening, and the strangeness of his feelings. He almost felt that he'd lost control, somehow, that up till now he'd been sure how to react to Snape under all circumstances, and now he didn't. Snape had the upper hand this time, and was leading this particular dance.

And now Snape stirred. "Time to finish the Sedative Potion," and rose from the chair, his tall, dark, and slender form brushed past Harry's chair, trailed by that almost-familiar scent that surrounded him, spicy, potion-y...

Harry rose and followed obediently. The simmering potion had darkened, and was considerably thicker. Snape extinguished the fire with a wave of his wand.

"A final ingredient, and it will be done," he said, "Pass me those dried elderflowers, please."

Harry passed the saucer of dried white flowers, which were delicately fragrant. Snape gently tipped them in, in a circular even motion around the cauldron. There seemed no obvious effect, but Harry was aware that Potions were subtle things, and just because you couldn't see a change, it didn't mean that something profound had not happened to the mixture.

"Now you can clear away and clean up the workbench, while the mixture cools," Snape instructed Harry, "When you've done, we'll bottle the potion. I know you can do a good job cleaning the instruments, you've learned that much at least in my classes," and Harry was almost relieved to hear an edge of what he thought of as the "real" Snape in that comment: the sarcastic greasy git.

He began gathering the instruments for cleaning, and took them over to the sink on the side wall. He found he was feeling guilty about his last thoughts: Snape had been nice to him this evening, even though this was a detention. If he was honest, he'd had the most pleasant evening he could remember in a long while (and that was disquieting in itself). Harry had to admit that Snape hadn't been sarcastic, nor greasy. His thick, black hair was so dark that it shone, and that shine, he now realised, was not due to grease, rather its opposite: cleanliness. Oh, these thoughts were so disquieting that Harry shook his head slightly and concentrated on his task, quelling the feeling that he'd been unfair to Snape as best he could.

Snape left the room, and Harry finished his task conscientiously, secretly pleased that the Professor trusted him to do a good job without checking his progress every few minutes. He packed the equipment into the labelled shelves and drawers, then used a clean cloth to wipe the surface of the preparation area. The cauldron of Sedative Potion sat on the bench, awaiting the finalisation of the whole process: the bottling.

Harry stood awhile, unsure whether to call out. Snape was in the adjoining room, perhaps he had meant Harry to tell him when he'd finished? Another pause, then Harry, who could not remain indecisive for long, stepped through the door to the pleasant sitting room.

Snape was sitting in his chair in front of the fire again, staring meditatively into the flames. He looked peaceful, but somehow sad. Harry had noticed the look before, but ascribed it to bad temper; now he realised it could equally well be melancholy.

"Professor, I've finished," he said quietly, and quelled another rush of guilt at disturbing the man.

"Fine, Potter," Snape replied flatly. He continued staring into the flames a little longer, then seemed to visibly shake himself, and look away.

"We'll go and bottle the results then. Madam Pomfrey has given me a list of supplies she needs for the coming year, this potion is just the first."

Harry couldn't help himself thinking how pleasant it would be to be able to help Snape with the other supplies too. This evening had been a revelation to him: the man was human, and more than that, he could be _nice, _even to a Potter.

"_Harry!_ What are you thinking?" he heard the voice of Ron in his head, "Have you gone mad? this is_Snape,_ Harry! He hates us!"

In the workroom, Snape took a tray of vials from one of his wider shelves.  
"These are the correct size for adult doses of Sedative Potion," he instructed, "And as few of our pupils are under the age of 12, I always use this size. Madam Pomfrey can always reduce the dose in the case of a particularly runty First Year." Again, the hint of Classroom Snape...

He placed the tray on the bench, and they began the bottling process. Each had a smallish ladle, and both poured the potion into the measured vials, without spilling. Snape of course was more than well-practised at this, his movements _flowed . _. Harry was slower, but determined to put care over speed, as he thought Snape would prefer this. He was beginning to have a real appreciation of the care needed to create a perfect potion, especially necessary for medicines. It would be foolish and wasteful to spill the results of an evening's work.

Again, Harry found they were working side-by-side, in a companionable silence. He was mentally congratulating himself at an evening which was having such a positive outcome, something he had never expected when he had approached the dungeon door at 7 pm. He felt a wistful desire to continue this new-found understanding, and thought it might even be possible that Snape felt the same way.

"Professor Snape," he ventured.

"Yes, Potter?"

"I wonder if you would allow me to, well, that is... I'd like to..." He came to a confused halt, unable to find the words he needed to continue.

"Oh for goodness sake, whatever it is you're trying to say, just spit it out..." Snape's reply was waspish, certainly, but the tone of voice was not sharp at all, in fact Harry would have described it as indulgent and amused if he'd had to say anything at all. Oh, this was such an odd evening, but odd in a nice way.

"Well, I ... I was wondering if I could be of any further help to you, with the other supplies you need to make for Madam Pomfrey... I've really enjoyed helping you this evening, and just wondered..."

The man next to him had stopped his fluid movements, in fact he had become completely still. Harry wondered if the shock had killed him, he couldn't even tell if Snape was still breathing.

"Er, well... that is, I don't want to be impertinent, honestly, but I mean it when I say I've enjoyed helping you, it's been..." He stood with his ladle of potion poised just above the latest vial.

Snape's head turned, and his eyes glowed with an intensity Harry hadn't seen before, not the angry fierceness of the classroom, but..

"_Harry..._."

The voice was gentle, but intense, and the shock of hearing his name combined with the realisation of what that look meant, made Harry's fingers nerveless. The ladle dropped from his grasp and the measure of potion spilled over his hands, warm, slightly sticky, and tingling.

Harry staggered back, and as he fainted his last awareness was of falling into warmth and darkness.

Once again, a dark, warm presence engulfs him, his body straining and pleading to be touched. _Please, oh please, touch me! _Touch me _there_ - there where my nerve-endings are concentrated, where my very being seems to have fled - touch my cock! The dark figure looms above him and he feels the heat of its presence, undeniably dark, but somehow not threatening.

How can that be? Even in dreams, Darkness means evil in Harry's experience, he's had far too many dark experiences for comfort. Sometimes, even while he slept, dark dreams had been sent by Lord Voldemort, and they'd always been disturbing, with Harry waking in a panic. This dream disturbs him in a different way though, with the feelings centred between his legs. Even as he dreams it, he knows he has experienced it before.

Now the figure approaches and hovers over him, and Harry's body is crying out for release, he _needs_ to be touched (why can't he touch himself? His arms seem unable to move, but he cannot work out why). He is making small, mewling noises of desperate need, and the figure, tall, dark, and slender; continues to hover, seeming to study him intently. A strange, spicy, almost medicinal scent is all around him. Harry is aware that this is a form of torture: the intensity of unresolved feeling is as sharp as a knife-cut. 

"Please..." he whispers, "please help me," and to Harry's relief this time he doesn't wake up: the dream is moving on, perhaps he will finally find out what it means and who sends it.

The figure leans closer, leaning over him, and a voice whispers, "It's all right, Harry, I'm here, I've always been here to protect you, to take care of you."  
The voice is soft, like warm toffee, deep without any trace of harshness. As if the speaker has swallowed honey, "I will always be here for you, and I will help you now."

Harry can hear water being poured into a vessel, and a fruity smell, which he identifies as peach, joins the other aromas in the air. He can hear the sound of hands splashing.

Harry is lying naked on what feels like a bed and he is comfortable (except for his urgent need! _Please_touch me...). The room is quite dark, the figure still indistinct in the backlight from the doorway.

Harry lets out a louder whimper, he cannot help himself, his need has never been so great, and his cock has never felt this rock-hard in his life before, he's sure of that. It almost seems like someone else's - bigger, redder, and angrier than normal.

The figure turns, and the hands reach out, coated in thick, white, peach-smelling lather. Harry groans, anticipating the touch of those slick hands: surely his need is about to be met.

But no, the lather-coated hands take hold of Harry's left arm and the soap is gently rubbed up and down from fingertips to elbow. Next, a cool damp cloth follows, wiping the soap away, and the beautiful smell of the fruity soap would be relaxing, were it not for the urgency of Harry's arousal, which is causing him to writhe his hips.

"Just lie still," the silky voice caresses Harry's ears.

A deep soft towel is now drying his arm, but Harry can only feel the sensation clearly near his elbow, whatever is wrong with his hand prevents sensation and movement there.

Harry moans once more, oh this is lovely but not what he _wants_, it's nowhere near enough. Can't the figure see his need?

Apparently not, for the figure is relocating around the other side of the bed, and the process is starting on his right arm. Once more the strange lack of sensation and movement in the hand, gradually returning by the time the figure touches him near his elbow. Well, his arms felt fine now, apart from the numbness, but ohhhh he needs some relief of a different kind...

"Pleeeeease," he begs.

"Ssshhhh," the voice tries to calm him, "you'll be alright, Harry".

So the figure has called him by name, and unless this is some very subtle form of torture, there seems to be no hatred or spite in the tones.

"I'm so hard..." Harry moans.

"I know... I'll help you as I've promised," the voice replies.

The figure comes nearer, and now, like a puzzle piece fitting into the final space, the delicious aroma that Harry associated with sex is complete: the musky element has been added to the others already surrounding him, and Harry is aware that the man (yes, definitely a man!) is aroused, strongly aroused, and he is the source of the musky scent.

And now that the smell of sex is complete, it is as if a spell has completed itself too, and the figure stretches out his hands and touches Harry's cock, grasps it firmly and begins to slide those delicious, moist, firm fingers up and down. And Harry screams.

Harry woke from his dream, aware that he had screamed out louder than ever before. The force of the climax had shattered him, and if he hadn't been asleep at the time, he felt sure he would have passed out. The intensity of the feelings, and the clearness of his perceptions, the scent which he could still smell as richly as when he was asleep, these things remained, along with the need to clean himself up.

Except he didn't have that need... A warm, damp cloth was being wiped around his cock, over his belly, between his legs. Harry opened his eyes, until then unaware they had still been closed.

Professor Snape was watching him, his dark (so dark!) obsidian eyes were blunted by tenderness. Harry's mouth fell open a little, he couldn't think of a thing to say. He was aware of feeling so grateful, so profoundly thankful, that Snape was here, taking care of him, helping him to understand his dream, his _recurring _dream... His fantasy of Snape, as he realised it had been all along. His unconscious dream-state had admitted what his conscious mind denied: he was in love with his Potions Professor.

Snape was still looking at him, intensely, but without any trace of his classroom anger or resentment, rather with that melancholic edge Harry had detected for the first time earlier this evening. And Harry felt a rush of emotion so strong: an understanding of just how plain difficult Snape's life was. A private, serious man who existed in a public arena: a school for teenaged children. A man with a difficult past, trying always to atone for wrongs committed while he was young and too ambitious, while he craved the acceptance he had never seemed to find. In gratitude for the understanding of Albus Dumbledore, he worked here at Hogwarts, and engaged in a deadly dangerous game of spying on the Death Eaters, pretending he was still one of their numbers. Underneath it all, he was a decent human being, a warrior on the side of Light, and one of Harry's most devoted protectors.

Harry leaned up and put his arms around Snape's back, and held him. He didn't want to let him go, now or ever.

"I see your hands have recovered then?" Snape asked quietly, "You should be able to manage by yourself next time."

Harry gasped, momentarily hurt; then he realised that Snape's sentence had ended on a rising note, and this was as near to a question as the man could bring himself to utter.

"I don't think I can, Sir," Harry replied, "I don't have your mastery of touch."


End file.
